


Denial

by WhiteLadyDragon



Category: Naruto
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst and Humor, Astrology, Autistic Character, Awkward Flirting, Based on a Tumblr Post, Consensual Violence, Crystals, Dirty Talk, Domestic Fluff, Dubious Morality, Emotional Manipulation, Established Relationship, F/M, Het, Humor, Infertility, Interracial Relationship, Jealousy, LGBTQ Female Character of Color, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Loneliness, Masturbation, Neglect, Nonbinary Character, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pre-Canon, Regret, Romance, Rough Sex, Sexual Tension, Slice of Life, Smut, Unhealthy Relationships, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 17:47:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15148517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteLadyDragon/pseuds/WhiteLadyDragon
Summary: As their village grows, she struggles to keep his attention.DISCLAIMER! Except for original character Aina, all featured or mentioned fictional entities are from Masashi Kishimoto's manga series Naruto. This fan fiction is written purely for entertainment and generates no profit whatsoever.





	Denial

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on an ask I received on Tumblr in which my muse, Aina, reads "a graphic sex-filled fanfiction" featuring her and Orochimaru. I had such a hoot writing it that I decided to expand upon it by writing the actual fanfiction.
> 
> This oneshot is unrelated to “A Bride for Orochimaru(!?)” and “The Farmer and the Snake” except for the fact they all feature my OC. Instead, the setting for this is an AU where Aina and Orochimaru are in a relationship and building Otogakure from the ground up. In fact, in this continuity, they've known each other since he was a jonin for Konoha. For now, I'll leave it more or less to your imagination how they got together.
> 
> You can read the post this is based on here: http://super-kame-love.tumblr.com/post/172267372441/ff-orochimaru.

Ah, there he is!

Aina leans against the threshold on her arm and takes a few moments to admire him in his natural habitat: pouring over today's notes surrounded by a dozen candles in his study. In the soft fire-light, his snow-white skin turns a golden pink, his black hair gaining a maroon tint.

Briefly, she notes that as romantic as candles are, he could stand to have a little more lighting than this when he reads and writes. She can fix that.

Taking a deep breath, she puffs out her chest. She takes care to put an extra sway in her broad hips as she dances up to him, her new red silk nightie—the biggest one she could find, with lace trimmings and nothing underneath—billowing around her thighs. Imagine her surprise upon trying it on earlier to discover she looks lovely in red. Must be the Aries Venus in her. It helps that she's lost weight.

But more importantly, he's bound to love it, too!

Hopefully, he won't ask how she got it. Unless he already knows.

He doesn't look up from the scroll as she places the oil lamp up in front and takes the space next to him on the pillows. But this isn't a bad thing. Far from it! It's exceedingly difficult to sneak past or surprise a shinobi of his level. Not that most would dare try, given what could happen.

He jus' done got comf't'rble with me, is all.

This is what she tells herself to put her heart back in place when it sinks so slightly in her chest. She appreciates his trust in her more than words can express…but can't he spare just a passing glance? This is her first time in a sexy nightie, after all.

It's all right. This is nothing unusual. Whatever he's reading must be important. The words blur and scurry across the page in her eyes, but she can make out some of them from skimming from around the curve of his upper arm, from the folds of his sleeve. She just needs to gently lure him away from his work. Gently, yet firmly. His determination is alluring, but even she knows one can't work all the time. You work hard, and then you play hard.

She's a Taurus. Of course, she would recognize this quicker than he, a Scorpio.

Stretching her legs to the side, she drapes one arm over her broad hip and props herself up on the other.

"Oi—"

Oops. "Oi" isn't very sexy. Do-over!

She clears her throat. Leaning to press her head against his arm, she asks with a smile and her softest, sultriest tone: "Say…what'cha readin'?"

At last, he blinks. His gaze breaks away from the text to rove onto her. His blazing yellow serpentine eyes trail downward from her brow to the valley between her breasts to her thighs playing peek-a-boo with the lacey hem. His slits for pupils dilate—from the nightie, or the darkness of the room?

"I'm going over the notes from today's results," he answers, one of his crooked smirks playing on his lips. This time, the right corner of his mouth curves up higher than the left. The tests must have been successful. Or if they're not finished yet, they're going in that direction.

But does he notice her change in dress? Surely, he must! He's looking right at her.

"Ah, you smilin'! They mus' be goin' awright! Which tests're those?" She presses her full cheek against his bicep, her smile broadening with admiration at its firmness. Her fingers creep down to trace the black winding thorny vines that make up the summoning tattoo on his left forearm. The ink blazes against his otherworldly complexion.

Orochimaru has experiments going on practically everywhere. It's a job in itself keeping track of them all.

"These are the trials for my Mind Awakening Pill. I created it to speed up the development of the Cursed Seal. The drug does indeed seem to allow all subjects to access the second state faster, compared to the two control groups…"

Oh. It's about that, huh? For the moment, even Aina must forget about her nightie. "Is'at right? How're th' two control groups? How'd they do?"

"One control group received a placebo. A sugar pill. The other received no treatment at all; their Cursed Seals were allowed to develop naturally. Interestingly, about half of the subjects who were given the placebo showed a similar progression of their seals, albeit at a slower rate. It would seem the mere belief of taking a supplement could be enough to unlock the second state more rapidly. At least in certain individuals."

The Cursed Seal is one of Orochimaru's biggest projects, a new way to use senjutsu chakra since he can't achieve Sage Mode. It had been quite a blow for him, so determined to learn every single technique, to discover something he couldn't do no matter how hard he'd try. Not unlike how it felt to learn she'd never be recognized as a kunoichi in Konoha for as long as she couldn't go to school (having found this out by sneaking into said school, in the first place).

But she's found ways around her limitations, and so will he.

The problem is how he's since gone about it. Only folks who can accommodate the seal survive receiving it, and currently there's no way to know if they will until he gives it to them. (Aina has had to clean up more than one of the bloody messes in the wake of a failure, and then it takes her all the next day to get back her appetite and wash out the stains.) Then once they get it, it must take time to develop. Now he wants to make it develop quicker?

Actually, should she be that surprised things are going in this direction? He plans to give these seals to his strongest followers…and candidates for his next host body. He'll want a new body that will let him eventually use Sage Mode.

"There's just one problem. Every subject who took the drug died shortly thereafter. Just a few minutes. And every subject from the placebo group who saw the same changes died, as well. So curious…"

The heat dancing across her skin grows from a tingle to a sizzle. She glances at the oil lamp in front of them and gulps. Why on earth would he smile about that? Doesn't that mean the drug is a failure, then? She doesn't dare say this, though. A failure is supposed to be an opportunity to learn something new. Then next time you'll have fewer corpses to bury and cremate.

"Oh. O-oh, dear…th-the second state's when you change shape, right? Like—like how a caterpillar turns into a butterfly? You can't make a caterpillar change no quicker than it awready can…can you?"

A cool, smooth hand takes her from under her chin, forcing her to look into his blazing eyes. Their faces are so close that the tips of their noses touch. "To the contrary, you could. But you would likely end up with a mass of cancerous cells or splatter of lysed ones. Or both." Goodness, the images!

His eyes then narrow at her, like she's turned into one of his books. At least she has more of his attention, now. "Unless…you had a way to let the body acclimate for the heightened transformation…"

Her breath quickens. "W-well, I mean, caterpillars don' turn directly into butterflies. First they gotta make a cocoon."

"Pupa. Or chrysalis. A cocoon is a silk casing for a chrysalis."

"Ah, right, right! They change in the pupa. Heeheehee!"

"Pupa." What a silly word! For just a second, it takes her back to her old garden and the days when she'd find those mysterious little hard green shells on the neighboring shrubs that looked a little like pea pods except they weren't. She'd dutifully check on these every day and watch them slowly bloom into those tiny delicate painted creatures fluttering around the flowers. Some would call it science. She prefers to call it magic. The magic of life.

Magic is one thing that had drawn her to him…even if he tends to dabble more in the darker side thereof.

His smirk breaks into a grin, showing off all his sharp pearly teeth. "Ahhh, yes, that's it!" he hisses in triumph. Often, when his emotions reach a fever pitch, he becomes raspier and slightly prolongs the S-sounds in his words, much more like the snakes he surrounds himself with. Depending on his mood, this can either freeze the blood in her veins or melt the panties off her thighs. Assuming, of course, she wore panties.

"If I can somehow administer the drug and then seal the subjects in a state resembling death—not unlike that of a pupating caterpillar—then maybe they'll survive the process? An excellent idea!"

Yippee! I helped!

This is how their relationship works. She helps when she can and stays out of the way when she cannot. The tricky part is deciding when she can be helpful.

He doesn't thank her for the inspiration. Not that she minds. It is mostly a happy accident, and he looks so excited and pleased that this small detail slips past her.

She claps her hands in the tight space between them, the fresh bloom of heat in her cheeks and between her legs prompting her to remember why she'd come here in the first place. "Ahaha! That it is, Orochimaru! An' you can get started on that tomorrow. N-now it's time to put away the scrolls an' relax…an' make passionate love! Y'wanna do it here or go t' your room~?"

In a blink, he draws back, his previously feral expression softening. "Come again?"

She blinks back at him. Has he honestly forgotten? "Um…well, c'mon now! You remember, don'cha? It's Love Night, darlin'! This's th' day o' the week you take a break from work an' spend it with me. That's why I'm wearin' this here nightie. Got it for you! You like it?" She gestures her hands down her body, from her shoulders to her parted thighs. Maybe then he'll be able to smell and get the hint more fully?

"Oh…is it, now? I was wondering about your change of dress," he says, his eyes briefly flickering to her cleavage. Well, her breasts are spaced too far apart for a true cleavage and she hadn't felt the need to get lingerie to go with this. If all goes as she'd imagined, it'd just get all ripped up, anyway. "Ravishing," he purrs, lightly licking his lips.

"So wha'cha waitin' for? Ravish me!" she cheers, climbing up on his lap to straddle him. Cupping his face in her hands, she gets to kiss him once, maybe twice, before he pushes her off.

"Oof!" She lands on the pillows with a thud. "W-what'sa matter?" she gasps. He's never turned down sex before, at least not with her. When she'd ground her pelvis against him, there'd been no erection to greet her. Is he having trouble getting it up? That's presumably a common problem at his age.

"As much as I'd love to take you, my dear, I'm afraid I'm a bit distracted right now," he explains, brushing back his hair which she'd tried to comb her fingers through seconds ago.

"Y'want me to suck your penis? That oughta help you focus!" She is perhaps not perfect at the art of oral pleasure, but she's been practicing on fruits…and him, when he asks for it.

(Maybe she shouldn't call it a penis, even if that's what it is? It sounds a bit too clinical, and the point is to shake him out of that mindset. Just like she prefers to call it "making love" as opposed to "having sex" or, Heaven forbid, "fucking." On the other hand, "cock" is a funny word. It makes her think first of the roosters strutting in the yard.)

He chuckles. "No, no. I just need to jot down ideas on how to supplement the Awakening Pill."

Now Aina has to pout, arms akimbo. Should she have said anything, after all? "Hm! Can't that wait 'til tomorrow? Ain't like you're gonna forget it 'tween now-n-then. I want you now! I been wantin' you all week, don't you know! I need you bad! An' you need me jus' as much!"

"That's rather presumptuous of you to say," he says in a tone that she can't determine is teasing or admonishing. Will it earn her a spanking later? She can only hope! Since they got together, she's discovered a greater enjoyment for spanking than she could have anticipated.

He reaches over to retrieve his scroll, but for a change she is quicker (or she simply has the advantage of being closer to it). Aina snatches it up, stuffs it between her breasts, and scrambles out towards the door: first on her knees, then on her feet.

"Catch me if you can!"

She doesn't even reach the corner at the end of the hall before she, with a squeal, is yanked off her feet and back to him through a barrage of hissing snakes he launches from out of his sleeves.

Bondage is another new pleasure of hers, though this is the first time he's ever wrapped her up in snakes in any context. Though their gaping mouths and hissing sends a mild chill through her spine, the ticklish slide of scales against her bare skin almost nullifies it. They don't squeeze her quite tightly enough to obstruct breathing, only to immobilize her.

Her vision swims. She giggles, though she's not sure if it's out of pleasure or anxiety. Humor is, she finds more and more, a confluence of both.

There are…many things she didn't think she would enjoy as much as she does before they got together. Suppose he just has that kind of effect on her?

"Aina…you of all people should know the virtue of patience," he tells her from the other side of the hall, lowering his voice on the last four words. "Be a good girl, and wait for me."

His tongue stretches out to her, hovering just over the writhing snakes like a snake unto itself. Except pink, slimy, and warmer. The tip of it strokes under her jaw, down her neck, right between her breasts, and leaves fire under her skin and a shiny trail on it in its wake…before it wraps around the scroll and pulls it out of her nightie, taking one or two of her breaths with it. A preview, no doubt, of what's to come.

His tongue. Flicks. Her pulse.

She's bound to pop a vessel in her face at this rate. But in that instant, her will to argue has vanished. "O—okey-dokey," she squeaks, her head rolling about her shoulders. The snakes release her and retreat into his sleeves, leaving her to stumble to his room in a daze and a sway in her hips.

Not before, of course, she scrunches up her face with a smile more goofy than seductive and gives a coy wave of her short fingers. "Oh, oops! I plum near forgot! I left you a new oil lamp so's you can have more light for readin'. Your eyes're so lovely! Wouldn' wanna ruin 'em, nope-nope-nope."

He passes her another smirk lopsided to the right. Even with the distance between them, his chuckle tickles her ribs. Good sign. All good signs.

Right?

…

Maybe she should have asked for an exact estimate for how long she'd have to wait for him? In all her horny naivety, she'd figured he'd be gone for fifteen minutes, at the most. She'd burn up all that time trying out different poses on his bed, trying to decide which one to greet him with.

By the time he finally does creep into the room and lock the door behind him, just over three hours have passed. The candles on either side of the bed have melted down to nubs of wax, their flames shrunken to embers on the end of their wicks. The candles are scented: ylang ylang and jasmine. A potent combination of aphrodisiacs.

But evidently, even the candles couldn't keep her up. Aina is sprawled out on the bed, snoring away. She must have realized some time ago he wasn't coming, yet rather than go back to his study and start an argument, she'd decided to be a good girlfriend (if indeed that is what she is) and pleasure herself. This he knows because he can smell her musk, can see it in the way her legs are spread and how there is indeed nothing beneath her disheveled nightie.

She's lost weight, too.

What a shame. Should he have taken her offer?

Oh, well. There's always next time. In all the years they've known each other, she's seldom refused him things—though this "Love Night" and the like is a relatively new development. She'll forgive him for skipping out. She always does.

He blows out the candles, casting the room in total darkness. It'd be too much of an effort to try pushing her to the side, never mind pulling out the sheets from under her. So he keeps his loosened robe on and drapes himself half over her, like a snake over his favorite sunbathing rock. He tucks one leg between hers. His right hand slithers up her plump, dark brown pear-shaped body—from over the curve of her hip, pausing to squeeze the tender flesh of her breast that hangs out from over the hem of her nightie, skimming along her short, sturdy neck—before coming to rest in the thick, wild mop of curls that is her hair.

Her hands and feet are calloused from years of labor under the sun, and combat under the moon. Her knees and elbows, rough and bumpy. One of these days, he should send her to a spa to smooth these out. She'd love that. But until then, there is plenty of soft skin left on her between the scars and calluses to enjoy.

He gently turns her head over to the other side so he can bury his face in her neck, his pale smiling lips pressing over her pulse without committing to a kiss.

Soft, warm, earthy, curious little thing.

…

If Orochimaru really didn't want to have sex, surely he would have told her? He could have. Why had he left her hanging like that?

Did he not like her coming on to him? Or did he not like how she'd done it? He hadn't seemed bothered by it before.

Could he really not get it up? He's awfully proud in all things.

Or had he simply gotten so caught up in his new idea that he'd forgotten about her? He is a genius, after all, at times living in a world separate from this one. It's the world inside his own mind, of which she's had the privilege to see only glimpses despite the time they've spent together.

She used to think he could be an Aquarius Moon. That is, until she'd had his birth chart drawn and discovered he's a Leo Moon, instead. And a Leo Mars. And Leo Rising. Plus a Scorpio Venus. Though he does have Mercury in Aquarius and Aquarius Setting. He doesn't put as much stock in astrology as she does (as in, not at all), but it's good to be different, isn't it?

Where she fits in his world, she's still figuring out. Sometimes she can't even be sure where she fits in this one. Ten, fifteen years ago, she couldn't have predicted going rogue at all. But she must have some place in it, or else she wouldn't have woken up still in his bed. She could have sworn she'd felt him beside her in the middle of the night, entwined around her in the most intimate way as he occasionally does. However, he's gone when she opens her eyes and stretches.

Is she disappointed? Yes. But with her bones as fluid as her thoughts are fuzzy, she recalls the look of inspiration on his face and with warm honey pouring into her stomach lets the matter go.

She picks up one of the pillows and hugs it tightly, inhaling his scent on the casing with a hum.

That's what love is about, isn't it? Letting someone be themselves?

…

She can miss Love Night for one week.

Except one week then turns into two. Then two soon turns into four. Love is about letting someone be themselves. But you've got to make time for the people you love as well as for your hobbies. Right?

The following week, he doesn't acknowledge anyone. That is, anyone who values their life while he grapples with one of his rare but explosive temper tantrums. Aina is neither that stupid nor suicidal. At least, not then.

He's completely absent the next two weeks, with not a note of explanation as to where he'd gone. Not that this is anything new. He's disappeared and reappeared at random plenty of times—mostly, presumably, for business. But she likes to think that they've since built up enough trust that he can at least give her more of an idea on his whereabouts.

Unless he's doing things he doesn't want her to know about…

Dread trickles in over the possibility that he's ignoring her on purpose. Had she done something wrong? He would have let her know if she had, wouldn't he?

He can't be spending all that time by himself. If he did, they wouldn't have their new growing village (some of which she'd helped build…literally! But also figuratively).

Who is he with, now?

Is he sleeping with them? There's no reason he should have to, not when she's right here willing to shower him with affection in almost any way and any time he wants…even with her lack of experience compared to his.

She doesn't know who or how many—and maybe it isn't her business to know, not that knowing this stops the questions from nibbling at her—but she knows he's been with other people before her. He'd mentioned it in that off-handed way he often mentions important things the night they'd decided to progress from kissing and petting. She can still remember it like it'd happened just last night.

…

"Really? Never? How old are you, again?"

"Um, t-twenty-nine years. Gon' be thirty in April."

"Twenty-nine. Hm. You're older than you look."

"Aha. You're forty-two years. I could, ah, say th' same 'bout you…"

"It's uncommon for people to remain sexually uninitiated at that age. Unless they've spent their life in a monastery."

"Well, most folks're married w' children by that age. Reckon that's why…that—that ain't a problem, is it? Me bein' a virgin, I mean? Or bein' twenty-nine years old?"

"Fufufufufu…now, don't be silly. That's no problem at all. In fact, this knowledge makes it even more exciting. In a way, this will be a first for both of us."

"Ah! You a virgin, too?"

"No. Fufufu. Heavens, no. But I've never initiated a virgin before. And who better than you? I can't wait to teach you everything I know…"

…

All things considered, it had been one of the most magical nights of her life.

So what's changed? Is he still seeing other people? Or is he simply preoccupied with his goals? She has seen him slide up a bit close to recruits, murmuring in their ears things she doesn't always catch because she's supposed to be working on the other side of the room. But compared to Hiruzen, Jiraiya, Tsunade, and the people she used to watch on the market square where she'd sell her crops every week, he's always had an odd manner of relating to people even on his best days. Maybe he can't help it? Just like she can't help slurring her words or flapping her arms like a sea turtle when she walks or clutching to every soft thing within reach because people don't like it when you grab them for hugs.

Has he…lost interest?

Aina puckers her lips and blows like she would to put out a candle. She tucks away all her questions for the moment and instead pulls out one of her stones—the amber—and kisses it before entering his study. As she approaches, she rubs slow, deep circles into it with her left thumb as she clutches it in both hands.

It's best to assume the best until proven otherwise.

To alert him of her presence, she briefly unclasps her hands to rap on the doorway five times. "Oi. You busy? I wanted t' ask you something."

Orochimaru's hair ripples around his head like a thick curtain of black silk. He turns to regard her, revealing the oil lamp burning dutifully on the bench. "To answer, yes, I am. I'm afraid you used up your question."

Her mouth makes an O-shape. Once she realizes he's teasing her, she squirms as though he's just poked her in her soft stomach. "Oh! That ain't what I's gonna ask. It won' take long, jus' five minutes. Maybe less."

Aina has never understood why people say they'll get to things in a minute only to end up taking more time than that. When one makes a promise, they ought to keep it. If they can't say exactly how long they'll take, they should give an estimate.

She clutches the amber close to her chest and continues rubbing it, this time in a line. In the firelight, his eyes and the stone become the same shade of ruddy gold. He doesn't seem to be in a foul mood today. Then what is his mood? What a peculiar person he is! Sometimes she can feel the emotions radiating off him. Other times, he's as solid as an iceberg (with an ego to rival it).

Still, she must ask: "Did…I do somethin' wrong?"

He pushes back a lock of his hair, answering with a question of his own: "What makes you ask that?"

"W-well, it's been four weeks since we last spent any time together. I mean, jus' th' two of us. I feel like—like you been ignorin' me. On purpose. I's wond'rin' if that was 'cause'a somethin' I done. Last two weeks, I didn' even know where you went. What if you got in trouble? I wouldn' have no way o' knowin'."

"Heh. As if that's ever a possibility."

"Well, even if it's an itty-bitty teeny-tiny possibility, it's still a possibility. I mean it. Y'had me right worried, don't you know."

"And sex-starved, I'm sure."

She blushes into her knuckles, rubbing the amber with almost the same intensity as she'd rub herself whilst thinking of him at night. No point in denying it. He's got a way of drawing even the most uncomfortable truths out of her, one way or another. "Um, well…yep. It's true I've missed you. I missed you in all th' ways you can miss somebody. Including sexually…"

"I swear, you're becoming insatiable." And he isn't?

"Now, that ain't hardly fair! Ain't my fault you th' sexiest person in the whole wide world. Besides, if I's insatiable, I wouldn' be settlin' on jus' one day o' th' week t' make love. If I had it my way, we'd be doin' it every day! But since I can't have it all my way, I came up with Love Night so's we could both be happy. You get your freedom-n-space, an' I get t' spend regular time with you. But it won' work like it's s'posed to if you keep missin' out on it. Where'd you go, anyway? Will you a'least tell me that much since you're back, please?"

The shadows and something else that she can't decipher flash across his face, or else it disappears too quickly for her to try. Much like a snake blending into the shifting desert sand. The lines in his face turn sharper, in the way they sometimes do when he's drawing venom on the tip of his tongue. Except, for whatever reason, he decides to save it for later and settle for a neutral response.

What's that all about? Had she just imagined it, in her anxiety?

Aina keeps rubbing the amber, slower, this time.

"Very well. If you must know, I have returned from Earth Country. We have a new addition to our fledgling village. You may know him as Kabuto Yakushi."

Aina jolts at the mention of that name. No way! Nono's boy, from Konoha's orphanage? Orochimaru had mentioned how Kabuto would be an asset to Otogakure, already a genius in medical ninjutsu at the age of nine. (Sometimes she wishes he'd talk a little less about people like they're things and more like they're, well, people.) But the boy had seemed so happy with Nono. As he should have been. Children need their mamas. What had changed?

"Kabuto! So he decided t' go with you, after all? What—what happened? Is he okay? What was he doin' in Earth Country? Why wasn' he home with Nono?"

Orochimaru rolls his eyes up towards the brick ceiling, noting the spider who's built her web in the corner by the bookshelf, currently wrapping up an unlucky fly who's just flown into it. "Kabuto was sent there by Konoha on what they'd intended to be a suicide mission. They've abandoned him. So I wouldn't say he's 'okay.' In fact, the poor child tried to kill me when I approached him. For now, I recommend you handle him with caution, if you must approach him at all."

Aina drops her amber between her feet, her heart ripping itself in two. How could they? How could they do that? And how could Nono let them? She must not have known! How had they taken him away from her?

Orochimaru…did he know this would happen? It would explain why he'd left when he did, how he'd happened to be in just the right place and time…he and Danzo used to work together—

Danzo. He must have been the one to give Kabuto that mission. That wretched miserable man! A Capricorn of the worst sort, dour and ruthless!

"S-so that's what you been up to, huh? Good gracious…good, good gracious…"

They—well, mostly he, but she's supported him from more or less the start—started this village as a sanctuary for the outcasts like themselves. How could she be so selfish?

She bends at the knees to pick up her amber before rubbing her eyes dry on her wrist. "D-d'you think it'd help 'im if I lent 'im one o' my stones? Like my rose quartz…"

"Perhaps. But for now, it's best to give him space. I'm not sure how he'll react to seeing you here, assuming he remembers you."

It's true. They had seen each other on a few occasions when they had both still lived in Konoha: half those times at the market, the other half around the orphanage. Not enough times to be close, but enough for her to know of him.

"O-okay…an' you? Is there anything I can do for you?"

He smiles at her. "A pot of tea would be appreciated."

"Ah, sure thing! Matcha?"

"Yes. Thank you, darling."

And just like that, the issue is forgotten. At least until next week.

…

Come the fifth week, he has no excuse, noble or otherwise, to hide behind. He doesn't even look her way, the next time she comes with the nightie. Mostly because when she shows up to get him, he's left for a gala. He hadn't bothered to tell her about it, never mind invite her along. Doesn't he know by now she loves parties?

She'd found this out from Jun, one of the medics. How lucky she is that she had thought to put on a robe over her nightie, this time! She blooms for him, not the whole world.

Though after nine fruitless years of navigating the world of dating, sometimes she wonders if the world would care to see her.

She's waiting for him when he comes in dressed in his finest kimono. The purple one with the gold serpents spiraling all over it. Kimonos, the kinds he wears, are mostly for women, but that's never stopped him. He combines all the best qualities of man and woman without fully siding with either one. As someone who'd always found beauty in both genders, how could she resist?

But on worse days, he's like a peacock: ornate and more than a bit vain. And unlike real peacocks, he seems to forget sometimes that he needs plain peahens like herself.

He looks her over with a tilt of his head. "You're still up."

She sits on the bed wrapped up in her robe with her knees under her doubled chin, rubbing her amber stone quite vigorously. Is it sexual frustration, or frustration with him? What hurts more: the fact he's stood her up again or he's gone to a party without her? Either way, her insides are boiling and it's taken nearly everything she has not to explode.

"I…reckon you had fun?"

The small, tired but no less self-satisfied smirk stays on his lips. It's rare to see a genuine smile from him. When he isn't smirking or grinning at the prospect of chaos, one can also expect to see him sneer when things aren't going his way. His sneers can be just as frightening as his grins no matter what end of the blade you happen to be standing at. "If you define 'fun' as in a successful evening, then yes. If we want to expand, we'll need to make some important connections."

Aina swallows, briefly unsure if she wants to dampen the high of his success. Who in the world has he met that he trusts won't turn him in to the authorities (whoever those are)? In the end, she decides to speak up.

"How come you didn' tell me you were goin' to this party?" she asks, her voice low and thick.

"I didn't feel the need," he replies, moving over to the mirror to begin the process of undressing. "You wouldn't have enjoyed it."

"Oh? An' why's that?"

"You wouldn't have gotten along with the company. They were quite catty. One listen to your diction and they would have ripped you to pieces."

Really? They're catty and he isn't?

"W-what's wrong with th' way I talk?"

"Nothing. It just doesn't appeal to everyone, and first impressions are essential to making contacts." He tells her that like she didn't already know, like she hasn't spent her whole life trying to master social niceties. "You appeal more to certain types of people: farmers, blacksmiths, street sweepers…common folk. Since you're here, would you please help me untie my obi?"

Most common folk except her own neighbors, that is. Not all the time.

Aina sucks in her lips but honors his request. She bounces off the bed and gets behind him. "How 'bout you? I know you don' count yourself as common folk. Do I appeal to you?" She sticks her amber in her mouth to free up her hands.

Orochimaru raises an eyebrow, staring at the rock in her mouth from their reflections. But this is nothing new. Aina has always had a slight taste in rocks, even when she's had pockets for them. "Of course, you do. You appeal to me in a different way. The sort of way we couldn't act upon at parties. Unless we were feeling particularly bold…"

She sucks harder on the amber, her face aglow with arousal. But it's only a momentary distraction. She undoes the obi, rolls it up around her arm and passes it over to him. Then she pulls the amber out of her mouth. "Yep? Well…I wish you'd show it a little more. Not even t' other people. Show it to me. I asked for jus' one day a week. One. That's it. Now you owe me four days. Four Love Nights, I mean."

Suddenly, she takes a whiff of his hair. He doesn't smell any differently—heady and damp, like old books, caves, and cucumber. No traces of foreign perfume…or cologne. Still, the question pops out: "W-was this one o' those naughty parties?"

He narrows his blazing serpentine eyes at her. "Most of us were criminals or connected to criminals, so by that definition, I'd say so."

"That ain't what I—I'm only askin' 'cause you been ignorin' me again, an' it can't all be 'cause'a work. Rescuin' children like Kabuto's a good reason t' miss Love Night. Goin' to a party without tellin' me ain't."

"And yet I still, supposedly, owe you four nights? Despite the fact that I spent two of them saving a child?"

Aina balks, heat radiating from her full cheeks to the tips of her ears.

"O—okay, two. You owe me two nights. Though I'd like it better if you told me next time you're goin' out alone."

She hates complaining, really, she does. She hopes he knows this, too. When she does, her own voice takes on an edge that cuts the air in her ears as forks and knives do when dragged against plates. She can only imagine what it sounds like in his, or anyone else's.

He shimmies out of the kimono as a snake sheds an old skin, exposing his torso and arms to her. His smooth, sinewy body is the product of years of training and combat as a shinobi (and possibly a bit of cheating through science). The black snake-shaped bands tattooed on his biceps shine against his skin as much his summoning tattoo does. Dotting his chest are two nipples a shade grayer than the rest of his body.

He's so close…if she can just reach out and touch…

"Are you suggesting I'm seeing other people, besides you?" he asks coolly. Not one bit defensive. Then again, he is rather shameless about most things.

Her fist clenches around the amber. "I…wasn' gonna say that. It ain't right to assume things without all th' facts—"

"Yet you are doing just that." Stripped down to his white fundoshi, he turns his whole body to face her, the obi draped across his bare shoulder. However, he only spares her a passing glance before gliding past her to hang the kimono on the wall.

"Noooo, I's askin' a question not makin' a statement."

"And the next immediate thing you think to ask me is whether I went to a 'naughty party.' Jealousy is a poor look on you," he tuts.

The sound of his tongue clicking makes her lips tingle, conjuring up memories of the kisses she misses and craves.

No matter how many times she sees it, the slight of his bottom poking out from his fundoshi—and the way the cloth bulges around the front—gets her thighs rubbing together, her breath shriveling into barely audible pants. She contemplates offering to absolve him of everything right now if only he'd take her against the wall. What a tease!

Instead, she shakes her head and stamps her left foot. What if that's just part of the game he's playing, assuming he is in fact playing a game with her? "Well y-y'ain't gave me no facts to the contrary! How would you like it if I spent more time with everybody else than I did with you? How'd you like it if I r'jected every time you asked for my time an' never told you why?"

He doesn't once look back at her as she speaks, focusing instead on hanging up the kimono. Only after he completes the task does he slide a heavy-lidded look over his shoulder. For but a second, his slits for pupils dilate. His gaze is smoldering, but his tone is nonplussed. Smug, almost. "Oh, there's no need to worry about that, because it won't happen. It's unlike you. No one else enthralls you like I do."

"H-how'm I s'posed t' be enthralled by somebody who won' even pay attention t' me?"

Sexual or otherwise.

"I'm paying you attention now, aren't I?"

"Reckon you hear what I'm sayin' but you ain't listenin' s'well as you—you ain't answered my—I don' feel so good," she moans, her right hand clutching her head as it begins to pound. Her left thumb resumes rubbing the amber as she clutches it to her chest. "Better go for a walk. Or somethin'. I-I need t' get outta here 'fore we make each other mad. G'night."

Trudging towards the door with her head down, a part of her longs for him to call her back, to tell her sorry for his coldness and finally explain it. Preferably with kisses peppered in between.

But he isn't the type. So he doesn't.

…

She's had no one to consult on the matter. Although even if she did, would it be right to talk about it? Instead, she must think back to the snippets of advice and observations she'd picked up from conversations with the ladies in her old neighborhood. Some of which, admittedly, she had not been welcomed into but had nevertheless stayed to listen, and to feel like she belongs for a little while.

(How are they all doing, now? Do they think of her at all? If they do, is it out of grief or disdain?)

There is one tidbit that echoes louder than the others. She remembers hearing that people enjoy "the thrill of the chase." At first she'd taken it to mean people enjoy it when you literally chase them around—a mistake she'd make on the first date she ever went on—but actually, the chase is more figurative: the excitement one feels when pursuing anything, whether it's a frog, a job, or a boyfriend. You're supposed to play hard to get, to pretend you're disinterested…because it keeps your love interested.

It all seems counterintuitive, backwards. Why would you act like you're not interested when you really are? And why would you not like it when someone acts interested in you?

But the more she ponders it over her cup of tea, the more sense it makes. It doesn't make complete sense, but it might explain their dynamic these past few weeks. Mama and Papa—well, mostly Mama—always said there's little you can expect to have that you didn't earn yourself. All good, worthwhile things need work. She did start courting him not long after they ran away together. Serenades, love notes, drawings…and a bar fight (long story, but let it be known that she did not start it), to name just a few of her efforts.

Her efforts, clumsy though they may have been, had accumulated in his grabbing her by the chin and kissing her one night after work. What had compelled him to do that is still a mystery. But for her, it was the same sort of feeling she got when she swam on her own for the first time–the sea slapping her tiny bare feet as if in warning yet beckoning her as it drew out the sand from under her, back and forth, back and forth. Floating in a vast green space, once she'd learned to stop struggling, Aina had wished she could stay out there forever in the sea's embrace, forgetting the fear that it could drown her if she stayed submerged in its briny depths for too long.

But Mama and Papa aren't here to call her back, this time. No one is. She's alone. Maybe that's why she took the plunge? He pulls her to him like a current. He's like the ocean, vast and uncharted and wonderous and perilous. A whole new world unto himself. Could he drown her? Maybe not literally, but in other ways. She just can't find it in her to care. Not enough to stay away.

She comes back up for air as her head comes up from her cup with a gasp. Is that what's going on? He's playing hard to get? Or is he pulling away because she's too eager for him, because she's making all the moves?

Why hasn't he told her that was a problem?

Unfortunately, to think about something for more than a day does not guarantee you'll make the right judgment on it, especially when your thoughts swim round and round like famished sharks.

Her squinting eyes sweep the room. Who should she choose? That blonde woman over there with the big soft breasts who looks like Tsunade from the back even though Aina knows it can't possibly be her? No. She's laughing with friends. A pang of envy shoots through her at the sight of their camaraderie.

How about that woman over there, slender and ruddy with mussed auburn hair cut in a crop? No. She's square and hunched over her glass. Whatever she's thinking about, she looks tense.

Ah! How about that man over by the bar, olive-skinned and muscular? The two seats on either side of him are empty. He sits upright with shoulders slackened, nursing his glass.

In theory, she should be inclined to flirt and flirt well. She is an Aries Venus and Gemini Mars. But theory doesn't always translate well to practice.

Her target chosen, Aina empties her cup. It clatters against the table as she sets it down harder than she should.

As she unties the snake-patterned scarf from around her neck and ties it tightly around her brow, Orochimaru finally looks at her.

"Where are you going?"

She points. "Y-y'see that there fellow? I'm gonna go kiss 'im," she whispers, her usually soft face taut with determination (or perhaps more accurately, nervous fury). "If you ain't gettin' fed a' home, then you go out t' eat. 'Cept I ain't talkin' 'bout food."

Just a kiss. That's all. Casual kissing seems to be all the rage. It's all Aina can will herself to do. Though in hindsight, perhaps she should have taken that as a sign not to do this in the first place?

She makes a beeline for the unsuspecting man with her arms flapping at her sides, not staying to hear his response even if he has one. She pulls herself up on the counter and plops into the chair on the man's right. She considers sitting on his left, where Orochimaru would see her better, but that might be too blatant.

(Not that anything about this is subtle.)

"Oi! Wha'cha drinkin'?"

The man jumps slightly blinks at her in surprise, as if she's rattled him out of his thoughts. "Huh, what? Oh! Um, hi. I'm, uh, drinkin' umeshu. Plum wine." His voice is light, almost boyish, and smooth. Incongruent with his muscly frame.

Ah, so it is. Another pang, this time of grief, trickles through her. Still, she forces a smile. You're supposed to smile when you flirt. "Ah well now, ain't that a coincidence? I like umeshu, too! My mama used t' make 'er own with the plums off our tree!"

"Did she? That's—that's nice."

So the conversation goes for the next ten or so minutes, talking about the joys of umeshu. It's the only subject she can think of to talk about. Nothing else seems to fit. All the while, she leans in as close as she can and stares into the man's astonished steel-gray eyes, prompting them to grow. Over his shoulder in the periphery, Orochimaru sits. Not that she can see his face clearly from over here, but from what she can see, he's still sitting there.

Is he watching to see if she's going to go through with it? She's never done this sort of thing before…

The man gets up, prompting her to hook her hand around his right bicep, yanking him forward until his gaping mouth is centimeters away from hers. His breath is little more than puffs of hot, stale air on her face. When it's Orochimaru's breath on her face, it's like standing in front of a dragon. Or a naga, which is what he is closer to being.

"Uh, w-what're you doing? Ma'am, are you drunk?"

What is she doing? She doesn't know this man, hasn't even asked for his name yet never mind given hers, and she's too distracted to try to get to know him. Hobbies are one thing, but she can't fake interest when it comes to people.

She used to be so interested in everyone who crossed her path (some would argue too interested). It just came naturally. What happened?

If she kisses this man, will he fall in love with her? That was what'd happened to her—provided she hadn't already fallen in love before they'd kissed, or in the middle of falling.

What if she breaks his heart? And she'd break it for what? To make Orochimaru jealous? Flirting when one and the other are both single is one thing, but you shouldn't kiss people you're not involved with when you're already involved with someone. Wasn't this her problem with Orochimaru? Not that she's ever seen him do it except in her imagination…

I…I can't do it! No-no-no!

With a yelp, Aina pushes the bewildered man back in his seat. His upset glass spills the amber-colored wine and ice cubes across the counter and over the edge.

Her eyes grow wet and her face crumples like paper. She covers her quivering mouth with her clasped hands. Suddenly, the low hum of the crowd chattering around her has grown into a howl. If only she had a shell to hide in! If only she had a shell to shield herself with!

How could she ever think for a second this was a good idea?

I don' know what I'm doin'…

She shoves two or three people aside as she charges for the door, manners the very last thing on her mind.

Outside in the darkness where the world is a mass of silhouettes, she jams her fist through the trunk of a tree. No matter how many times she rubs her rocks or how many times she curls around soft things, there are always moments when only the destruction of something with her bare hands—even a poor old innocent tree that just happens to be there when she can find nothing else to break—will put out the fire burning in her head and clear the smoke from her eyes.

She hates, hates, hates that about herself.

Inside, Orochimaru listens to the muffled cracking of bark and hides his smirk behind a sip of his drink. Saké. Rice wine.

…

They see barely hide or hair of each other for the next two days, even though he has nowhere to be. He wonders at first whether Aina is avoiding him in an attempt to be aloof.

No. It's more likely out of shame for the stunt she'd pulled. She's been this way ever since they began their partnership. She loses control of her emotions—or the situation—and does something previously unthinkable, only to withdraw in shock afterwards.

Only time will tell how much she will grow out of this habit, if at all. After all, she didn't give up her humble but comfortable life in Konoha for nothing. She surely had not been coerced into doing it. Except, perhaps, by her own insecurities.

Not that he's made any effort to soothe her since that night. Let her wallow in guilt and loneliness for a day or two. She will soon beg him for forgiveness and comfort, for he is the only person left who can and will give those to her.

It's the least she can do after that dreadful attempt to make him jealous.

…

This time, it's Orochimaru who approaches her first after everyone has gone either to bed or their night shift. He finds her in her own room instead of his.

She's undressed, preparing for bed when he comes in. She's bare to him, body and soul. In the light of the single candle by her bed, her plump brown flesh glows terracotta, her curls a reddish brown.

"Kame?"

She jolts at the rasped sound of her nickname and turns to regard him, curling into herself like a turtle. "Oh. Um, howdy, Orochimaru."

"I've been looking for you. I didn't see you in my room. Going to bed, are we?" His slits for pupils have dilated, though it's uncertain whether it's because of the sight of her naked body or simply the darkness.

She taps her pointer fingers together, trying to keep eye contact with him. "Yep. I didn'—I didn' think you'd wanna see me there after what I done. B-but since you're here, I wanna say I…I'm sorry. I'm sorry I tried t' kiss that fellow in front o' you. That was stupid. It was stupid an' mean an' a dirty thing to do. It's jus'…"

She sighs, trying to straighten herself back up. "It's jus' you been ignorin' me a lot lately an' you won' tell me why. An' sometimes–sometimes it feels like I care more about you than you do about me. I done gave you six days o' the week t' do all you hafta do an' wanna do an' you won' even gimme my one. I don' jus' mean time for sex. I mean, time for…for us."

"You do understand how busy I am. I have experiments to run, students to train, allies to wine and dine…"

"So you do go on dates with folks?"

"No. Not romantic dates. I entertain them while we discuss deals and sometimes food happens to be involved." He ambles over to her with the swagger of a lion. Well, if a lion could walk upright and had snake eyes. Of course. He's a Leo Rising.

"Or, as is more often the case, they entertain me." Aina gets the feeling from watching him tilt his head that his second use of the word "entertain" differs in meaning than from his first use.

"Oh. In that case…yep. I know that. I know all that. I do know you're busy. That's why I give you six days o' th' week an' I do all I can to help out. But for some of 'em, it–it feels like you talkin' to people for more than jus' business. Reckon I did what I did 'cause I wanted you t' feel how I been feelin' s-so's then you'd start spendin' more time with me. An' less with other folks. Reckon I wanted t' see if you still cared."

He rests his chin on the fingers of his left hand, while his right hand comes up to hold his left elbow. He does this sometimes when he's contemplating something. Or heckling someone. Eventually, he shrugs. "All I can say about it is that sometimes I'm just not in the mood. It has nothing to do with you."

Aina unclasps her hands and drops her arms, allowing her breasts to sag. Her mouth makes an O-shape. "That's peculiar. You a Leo Risin', Leo Moon an' Leo Mars. Plus you a Scorpio with Scorpio Venus. I'da thought you'd want attention plum near all th' time. 'Specially the sexual kind."

"And that is yet another reason why astrology is nonsense. The human personality can't be predicted by blood, never mind uncaring celestial bodies. If it were true, you might not have been inclined to join me and leave behind your farm because the 'fact' that you're Taurus Sun and Rising and a Cancer Moon would have made you want to cling to stability and security."

Ah! So he does pay attention to it, sometimes!

That's either his Scorpio Sun or Aquarius Mercury coming out. She thinks to ask him what does determine a body's personality—after all, he's so determined to learn all the secrets of the universe—but the question rots away off the tip of her tongue.

Aina blushes. If she can't get him in the mood, doesn't that mean she's a bad lover? Or is there something else going on that she's missing? If it's not another person, and if it isn't her…

He takes his turn to put down his arms. One pale hand reaches out to brush knuckles against her feverish cheek. The other traces a finger in a well-traveled path down her body from her collar: between her breasts, over her racing heart, and across her burning stomach. As if to taunt her, his face swims up to hers so the tips of their noses brush against each other but their lips stay just out of reach of each other.

"I must say…that was a bold move."

Oh. They're going back to that?

"W-what's it matter? I couldn' kiss 'im, after all. You were right. I ain't int'rested in nobody but you. Are you…still int'rested in me, too? Or've you been ignorin' me 'cause you ain't int'rested in me no more?"

He flashes her one of his wicked smiles, his blazing yellow eyes devouring her skin. This time, the left corner of his mouth turns up. Usually when the right corner is up, he's feeling smug about a goal he's just accomplished or having the upper hand. But when it's the left corner, that means he's about to do something extra-crazy.

Whatever he has in mind, she'll give it to him. It's the least she can do. But it's not just that. She wants it. She needs it. The whole point of this exercise was to get his attention. Now, only through him can she find redemption.

A shiver of anticipation ripples through her as his finger comes to stop in the patch of hair between her thighs. He's just centimeters above her nub. He's doing this on purpose. On instinct, her hips rock forward slightly in hopes of catching it.

"I wouldn't have bothered to come here if I no longer had interest in you," he says, his voice like tattered silk. "What matters is you tried…and you do have my attention, now."

He removes his knuckles from her face to replace them with his palm. She leans into it.

"Of course…you do also understand a simple apology doesn't absolve you of the fact you still tried to throw yourself at someone else in front of me. It is a punishable offense…"

He licks his lips.

She gasps. He's like one of the candle flames flickering in this room, and she's a stick of wax melting under his gaze…and soon, more than that.

"Yep. I–I know. So do it. P-punish me. Please. Jus' don' ignore me anymore."

That's all the permission he needs. A chuckle is the only warning she gets. His palm slips off her face, only to return to sting it in a hard slap that cracks the air around them. She barely manages to keep her footing as he takes advantage of her shock to seize both her wrists. When she comes to, she sees her hands bound together in front of her with string, fingers laced as if in prayer.

(There's a tentative rumor he likes to use snakes for bondage in a sexual context as well as in battle. Not that she'd ever tell, but this has not held true in the time she's known him. What had happened all those weeks ago, when he'd caught her using his Striking Shadow Snake technique, doesn't count. Probably. He respects snakes more than he respects people.

Now the fondness for bondage, that much is true.)

He hisses in her ear before pushing her on the bed, "I'm going to take my time fucking you. You will not kiss me or touch me, nor will I let you come…unless, perhaps, you beg for it enough."

Normally, she doesn't like cursing. Maybe it has to do with the way he says it (goodness knows how seldom he soils his speech with curses outside the bedroom), but lately she's discovered it terribly right in times like this.

Already, she's soaking between her legs. She becomes especially aware of it as her back hits the mattress and her legs slide open, exposing her petals to the open air. She watches him quickly shed his rope belt and tunic and beside her, squirming with the desire to help him undress despite her inability to do so. He keeps his black polo on. An awful shame. His torso and arms are so lovely to look at, even more so to touch. (Not that the rest of him isn't marvelous, because it is.) On the brighter side, his muscles do bulge slightly through his shirt, more so because it hugs his body rather than because his muscles are particularly large.

Suddenly, as he pulls off his pants and sets himself between her legs—how peculiar that he wears underwear for fancy occasions but not for any other time—she remembers something important.

"W-w-wait!" she pleads, her cheek still seething from his slap. "E-earplugs! My earplugs! In th' dresser!"

Orochimaru can turn rather loud in the throes of passion. So can she, but not as much as he. That wouldn't be a problem except loud noises like shouting have always caused her pain for reasons unknown to her. Her earplugs muffle their noise without rendering her totally deaf to them.

He pauses and glares at the dresser in question, either hand clutched around her thighs. Will he get them for her? Or will he punish her by making her go without them?

Ultimately, he sets down her legs and climbs over her to reach for it, crouching over her breasts as they bob with every shallow breath. The last time they'd tried sex without the earplugs, she'd wound up kicking him off. Not because she'd wanted to but because the rattling in her skull had become too much, no matter how powerful his thrusts or sweet the friction between them. She can take all the spanking, biting, hair-pulling and scratching he can give, but not noise. They'll need them if he wants to successfully torture her in the way he has planned.

Besides, he hadn't brought enough string to bind her feet.

She doesn't know if this is on purpose, but as he bends forward and rummages through the dresser, she finds his magnificent length tentatively brushing her face and her heart skips a beat. It's magnificent to her, anyway. It makes no difference that every other penis she's seen this up close before his had been in a shunga. His is best because it's real: long and thin, a darker gray compared to the rest of his body, surrounded by a wreath of thin, short black hair. A small vein runs along the side of it. It smells musky like the rest of him, except stronger, more like yeast.

He's already rock-solid with desire, because of her. He is definitely in the mood, now.

With the next flash of damp heat coursing through her from her core outward, she forgets his rule against kissing him and lurches herself up with her back to wrap her mouth around the tip. Her hands bound, she can do little more than use her lips and tongue to try pulling it further in. Despite its hardness, it's irresistibly smooth on her tongue, like silk draped over steel. That heady smell of his skin becomes a salty, slightly fermented taste filling her whole mouth. It's a scent and taste with which she's become fondly familiar.

Above her, Orochimaru sharply hisses with pleasure. He must forget his rule too, however briefly, because he grips the dresser and a brick jutting out of the wall and thrusts his hips against her burning face for not quite a minute. His thrusts are mostly shallow, with two or three deeper ones that come close to making her gag. She squeezes her watering eyes shut and tries to keep slurping on him as she's practiced with the cucumbers, focusing on the twitching pulse she strokes with the sides of her tongue.

But all too soon, he pulls out. The next thing she knows, he's clamored back down her body and resumed his place between her legs. Except now he's got one hand clutched around her neck and the other fisted right next to her cheek.

"Look at me!"

Her airway constricted, she has no choice but to comply. A few hot tears trickle out as her honey-brown eyes fly open to greet his yellow ones fixed in a piercing glare. They become all she can see.

"What did I say about kissing me?" he snarls, gnashing his teeth.

Does her heart pound against her ribs out of terror or desire? She gulps hard twice before tittering, "B-but you…you like it…you like when I put you in my mouth—ack!"

His grip on her throat tightens. The only reason he's got just one hand on her neck instead of both is because the other is gripping the earplugs, and the bottle of lubricant.

"How presumptuous of you." Even if it's true?

"As if that's what I want, right now. Perhaps you're not as docile as you'd like people to believe? If you disobey me again, I'm leaving."

The fire licking her blood momentarily collapses under a chill. Leaving? In what context? Leaving her here alone in this room for the rest of the night, or leaving her alone forever? Whatever he means, she is determined not to find out. He could have threatened to take away her earplugs—no, he could have threatened to strangle her and it wouldn't have frightened her quite as much.

But he won't kill her. He's threatened to do it more than once, most of those times before they'd become lovers, but all his threats have so far proven empty. If he truly wanted her dead, he would have made her dead a long time ago.

She shakes her head as rapidly as she can. "N-n-no! I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'll b—I'll be good from now on!" she sputters. "I'll be a good girl. Promise! Jus' tell me what you want me t' do! P-please!" If her hands weren't currently bound together, she'd raise her pinky finger to him. If only he hadn't ordered her not to touch him, or else she'd have raised her hands to brush her knuckles down his body. Instead, they remain stiff and tucked over her sternum.

His hair fans out over his back like the hood of a cobra, as it often does in moments of passion on or off the battlefield. Some of it cascades over his white shoulders and onto her, tickling her collar and bosom. His tongue again pokes out to lick the air between them. Is he smelling her to tell if she's lying?

"That's what I thought," he murmurs, slowly pulling back like the cobra he looks like. "All I want you to do is take my cock." As if to emphasize his point, he shifts his hips and she feels his length brush against the junction between her thigh and her petals.

"Ah!"

"Beg for me. But first…"

He releases her neck, but only to grab her instead by the jaw so that he may turn her head for her. Temporarily breaking out of his rough disposition, he inserts the plugs into her ears one at a time. She's unsure whether it's this single act of tenderness in the thick of dominance, or what's bound to follow, that turns her on. Both?

Either way, his cool fingertips, made warm from the touch of her skin, send surge after surge of heat through her neck and down to her heart. So much heat that her heart can't hold it all, allowing it to fill the aching space between her legs. She's mewling for him even before his fingers, slick with lubricant, spread apart her petals and dig inside her.

There's a pattern to his method: one finger, then two, with the edge and mound of his thumb held flush against her so she can rub her nub against them as her hips, on pure instinct, buck up to meet him.

She can't see his fingers pumping inside her—Lord, how she wishes!—but it makes the swells of pleasure pulsing within her no less intense. If it weren't for the fact that every motion draws a moan from her throat, she'd be quiet just to listen to the muffled wet sounds, or to the growls rumbling in him that vibrate her bones as he attacks her neck and shoulders with his hungry mouth and free hand. His teeth gnaw and nibble her flesh like she's a ripe loquat, when his lips aren't sucking on it or his tongue isn't gliding across it, leaving trails of saliva in its wake.

Her heart nearly breaks out of her chest as his teeth graze her pulse, his length tapping against her hip as he straddles her leg.

With a whine of his name, she lifts her arms as far as she can to give him more access to her breasts. His mouth feasts on one breast while his free hand kneads the other like it's clay. Like she is clay to be molded as he sees fit. Her right nipple, usually hidden, pokes out eagerly with the pinch of his fingers. As his mouth switches to the other breast, his hand slithers down the side of her body, squeezing every dip and curve it touches, until it wraps around her hip to squeeze her bottom, forcing her ever closer onto the hand stretching her open.

Oh God—!

What is he getting out of this? Never mind pulling out of oral sex; why not let her just comb his hair or massage his back? Kiss his chest? Anything? Wouldn't it make more sense to let her do all the work to make him feel good?

Unless that's the point…

She gets little chance to ponder this, however, when his hand trails back around to press on her soft belly. Then he curls his fingers in that way. That special come-hither way that brushes the spot inside her that makes her feel like she has to pee when touched. But it's not the urge to pee. It's the prelude to an explosion if he keeps at it.

She is a candle he's burning on both ends.

At least, until he abruptly pulls out his fingers and smothers the fire, leaving her gaping at the mouth and her core. "N-no!"

"Kukukuku…I told you. You can't come unless you beg me enough for it." His lips are so close to hers that it's painful. Her scalp and neck prickle with his energy, vibrant and purple and somehow so cool that it's scorching. "And I haven't heard nearly enough begging."

Once more, his tongue pops out. Except instead of licking his lips, he licks his slickened fingers…before he runs it over her lips. Like the way he sometimes runs it between her legs when he's feeling especially generous.

Good gracious! She would have stuck out hers to touch it, but by the time she gets the thought, his tongue has darted back into his mouth. And his fingers—three, this time around—have plunged back into her core. In an instant, the liquid fire reignites and she throws her head back into the pillow with wordless gasps of praise that quickly launch into yelps. No matter what he's demanded to the contrary, still her arms strain to break apart the string binding them.

It isn't a total repeat of the torture. Three fingers probe her rather than two, his strokes are shorter and faster, and he climbs over her leg to get back between her thighs. This way, he can pin her down by the hipbone more firmly, impeding her thrusts, turning her undulations into helpless jerks.

"Taste your lips," he snaps, leaning over her with a lopsided grin. "Taste how wet they are!"

She obeys, barely able to muster the tip of her tongue along her lips beneath the addictive tension building in her body. They are wet, coconutty, and faintly salty from his spit, her drippings, and the lubricant. (Getting coconut oil had been her idea, having heard so many great things about it…even if it doesn't quite suit the aggressive mood of tonight's interlude. Ah, well. It's all they have. It's better than nothing.)

"Th—ah! I'm all wet for you!"

"Tell me, were you thinking of me when you came onto that man?" His fingers slow down but plunge deeper into her. They're curling again—

"Y-yes! Ergh, yes, th' whole time, yes!"

"Why that man in particular?"

As grueling a question as any, partly because she's coiling up like a spring with the pressure mounting through the strokes of his fingers.

So he does care?

All she can think of to say (and it is the truth; she is an Aries Mercury and she could never ever lie to him even if he wasn't fingering everything out of her) is:

"H-h-he seemed nice! Like how you used t' be!"

The candlelight seems to dim over his face, shadows billowing down from his prominent cheekbones like a veil formed with his hair. Just as abruptly as the first time, he stops and pulls out, again leaving her throbbing and porous and whimpering. Was that the wrong answer? Or is his hand starting to cramp? She must wonder from the way it twitches.

"'Cept you're…you smarter," she pants, trying to pull herself up with her back since she's been granted the space. That's not flattery. Bouts of carelessness aside, Orochimaru is the most intelligent person she knows besides Papa and Mama. At one time, he had been considered to succeed Hiruzen as the Fourth Hokage.

(It'd be a lie to say she's never wondered what an aristocratic fellow like himself is doing with a bumpkin like her. Maybe it has to do with how the "aristocratic" part is largely a façade? He had come up from nothing like she had. Well, not truly nothing; only "nothing" in the eyes of the rich and powerful. Take away the fancy clothes and all his books and you'd have more a beast than a Kage, or whatever else he fancies himself to be.)

But it sounds woefully inadequate as an explanation for why she, in spite of everything, still prefers him. The bite he'd planted just under her collar oozes blood, and every thought and feeling she's had about him. Can he taste them all?

Eye contact has always been a challenge—either she stares too much or can barely look folks in the eye at all—but now, she finds the nerve to meet his gaze, dark and mad with lust. In the dim, fiery orange glow, the purple markings around his eyes turn black.

"A…an' you're special…i-in a way nobody else is…"

She slides her legs farther apart in offering. Even if she can't properly explain herself, at least he can be sure she's telling the truth.

His cackle, starting out low and quiet before it grows guttural and fills the entire room, ripples through her flesh, drawing a half-giggle, half-moan from her throat. His sounds have always done that to her. Is he laughing because he's pleased, or because he's mocking her?

"Is that so?"

Without further warning, he swipes around to grab her by her curls on the back of her head, forcing her to bend further up. His other hand grips her bottom to slide her forward to meet his hips.

She cries out when at last he impales her, his length thicker than his two fingers combined. He slides in as deep inside her as he can and wastes little time waiting for her to adjust before he starts thrusting, slow but ruthless. He'll go faster, soon. The pain spasming from her scalp and her back at the angle he's got her bent at slowly fades with the rush of endorphins and her relief at being filled and stretched by him…even if it's been a while and he's rough about it.

Her breasts sting her with every bounce just beneath her arms. The bedframe rocks beneath them. She moans and tries in vain to buck her hips in time with his, only to be pulled away from her effort by a twist of her curls in his fist and his snarl:

"You know what I think? You're in denial."

She might have asked what he meant by that, were her body and mind not tearing at the seams by her own fever and his intrusion. Every half-word that foams up spills out as a moan or a squeal.

No matter. His other hand shoots around her lower back, just over her sea turtle tattoo, to prop her up. He answers for her, reaffirming their locked stare. His breath is ragged and his S-sounds are prolonged as if he's spitting invisible snakes upon her, but otherwise his speech remains enviably coherent.

"You're as greedy as I. Selfish. Your temper may be even worse than mine. You're just too afraid to admit it…because you want so desperately to be loved."

He drives in deeper, as if trying to penetrate her soul. Or is he reaching more immediately for her womb, barren as it is? (Is it karma that she can grow the tastiest greens but never a baby?) Does he mean to split her open so he may fill her with his essence?

Whatever he's doing, tears of pleasure and pain stream more freely from her eyes. But where is the pain coming from: his touch, or his words?

"A-aaahhh!"

Except to let her drop on the mattress and to lean over her, he stays flush against her hips, base-deep. "You hide behind a mask of innocence and charity…but the mask must fall off eventually. And when it does, people leave. You saw how that man responded when you tried to kiss him. They'll never accept you completely. They'll never accept you."

Now she's sobbing, staring down at the narrow gap between their bodies. At best, she only catches a glimpse of the junction where they're connected at the end of her arching body…yet it's one of the most profound things she's ever seen. It has never failed to astound her how boldly their skin contrasts, like yin and yang side by side. Black and white. Female and male. Darkness and light. Earth and Heaven. One cannot exist without the other, and each houses a piece of the other. The sight of his length buried inside her, their hair tangling together, makes her much more acutely aware of his heat, his feel, the moisture building up between them.

Her toes curl tightly. Her heels dig into the mattress. Flat on her back, she hides her eyes behind her bound hands, for now she is indeed praying. But not to the gods she used to pray to. "O-Orochimaru…nnnnggh…pl-please…!"

Orochimaru arches upward and resumes thrusting, this time lifting her legs to strap over either of his shoulders, breaking the loop she'd tried to make around his waist. His nails dig into her thighs as he picks up speed, bound to leave lines of purple crescent moons along them later. The faster he goes, the more broken and animalistic his speech becomes. The more the bedframe creaks.

"You're…lucky to have met me! Who knows…where you'd be without me?"

Aina would probably be back at her farm doing all the things she used to do…and keep being a stranger in her own village. The kooky chatterbox of a farmer people saw everywhere, poking around in their business whether they wanted her there or not, yet knew next to nothing about.

With her earplugs, everything sounds like this is all happening underwater. In a hot spring, maybe? With how wet they're both getting and how thin their breath is turning, they may very well be.

"It don' matter!" she sighs. "Y'always tellin' me, g'uh, the past don' matter! I'm with you! I'm with you, I'm with you, I'm with you!"

That's not quite true. If Orochimaru really believed that, he wouldn't still be upset about Minato getting the Hokage's chair and hat instead of him. Not that this is the only thing ailing him. But now is not the time to discuss hypocrisy.

As though sensing she's on the edge, he stops again with a grunt, this time with his tip rubbing her swollen petals. Oftentimes when they make love—or fuck, as he's calling this—he changes positions. She likes to think he does it so he can enjoy all sides of her body, but she wouldn't swear to it (since there is no one she'd swear to, in the first place). He doesn't grant her much time to protest his pulling out before he drops her legs and flips her onto her stomach. All the air she can muster gets knocked out of her as her chest hits the mattress.

The next time he grabs her hips, it's to prop up her hindquarters so she is kneeling prostrated across the bed. Except the person she's prostrating herself to is behind rather than in front of her.

"This cunt is mine. Those tits, those lips, this hair, this scent, these thighs…this whole body is mine! No one else will ever touch it!"

That hadn't crossed her mind even as she'd tried flirting with that stranger with the plum wine. But what does he mean by that? A simple declaration of possession, or a warning that there is indeed no one else who will touch her this way, that only he can ever know her value inside and out? It's maddening how vague he can be when he isn't being blunt. For a while before she'd drawn up his chart, she had believed he might have a bit of Gemini in him, especially Gemini Mercury. But no. Aquarius Mercury. Ah, but the Aquarius thinker can get lost in their own head, too. Perhaps more profoundly so, especially when paired with the ego of Scorpio.

Whatever he means by it, it brings more tears to her eyes and a fresh wave of wet heat to her core. As mercilessly as before, he slides back into her, once more imbuing her with his heat and venom. He wasn't kidding about taking his time, was he?

"Ai!"

The air, and her bottom, crack as his hand strikes hard across it.

"What's the matter? You're normally so talkative! Can't think of anything to say, hm? Go on! Beg for me!"

She bites her lip at the sting of his nails digging into her wide hips, at the way he stretches her insides, only for her mouth to hang open in a broken succession of groans and borderline screams at the circles he makes around her nub at as rough and erratic a pace as his thrusts. Slow, fast, slow again, fast again. When he pauses, he alternates between tip-deep and base-deep. It's only to bring her to the brink just so he can drag her back from it, again and again and again.

When his fingers leave her thighs for the fourth time, they jab themselves into her drooling mouth to block her attempts to beg. The salt from his skin and her drippings is stronger, the coconut from the lubricant made pungent. She arches her back and bites down on his knuckles but not quite hard enough to draw blood. Every ragged breath is like inhaling steam. He punctuates his hedonistic hisses and filthy growled promises with short wet slaps against her thighs and bottom, and the occasional slap of her bottom with his hand.

Finally, he sinks his teeth into her neck with far more voracity than his previous bites, as a lion would do to his mate. In moments like these, pain and pleasure melt together, no longer able to be told apart.

Somewhere in between, she squeezes her eyes shut, spreads her legs for him though they cramp, and cries into his hand for salvation. Otherwise, she is helpless to his furious assault on her body, ears, and mind.

Orochimaru can't keep his fingers in her mouth for too long, nor can she stay propped on her elbows and knees for much longer. As he drives himself deeper into her and holds still–just as she thinks he possibly couldn't–she spits them out. She tucks her wet mouth behind her bound hands to guard it from more intrusion. Not that she doesn't want it–she wants to be so tangled up in him she can't tell where he ends and she begins–but she has something to say. Better say it now before he resumes his thrusting and rips apart what coherent thought she has left.

"O-Orochima–I love you! I love you, I love you, y'hear? Y-y-you my first an' you'll be my last an' every one in b'tween! I'm y–I'm yours a-a-an' nobody else's! Ahhhh, p-p-please, lemme come with you! I can't take it no more!"

"I love you." She's lost count of the times she's told him that. Mind, she'd been telling him long before they'd become this intimate. But in all the years she's known him, he has never once told her the same, never mind said it back to her.

Although, not saying you feel something doesn't mean you don't feel it. Right? She should know.

Tonight is no exception. He doesn't answer her plea. Not with words, anyway.

Instead, he grabs a new fistful of her curls and pulls her head back. Several sharp, quick thrusts later and he roars at the ceiling. If only she could see his face, this time! He's a fierce kind of beautiful when he climaxes, when his hair billows around him and mouth flies open to flash all his sharp teeth and his white face for once takes on a shade of color, if only for a second.

Her body hungrily clenches around him and that familiar warm gush fills her. So close–

Of course, he'd seek his orgasm first. She won't join him at the peak, this time. This is her punishment, after all.

It's all right. What matters is that he came because of her. She's made him feel good.

His length rests swollen and throbbing inside her. Closing her leaking eyes, she imagines she can feel his racing heartbeat through it. Can he feel hers, too? Can he feel their hearts thumping nearly in sync?

But he hasn't quite abandoned her. She must have begged well enough to warrant an award. He lurches over, forcing her to land face down between her arms and her bouncing breasts. His hand releases her hair to glide down her flushed back, cool and smooth as one of his snakes, before it dips over her hipbone to massage around her nub one last time with the pads of his fingers.

Release, at last.

It rises from deep within her belly like a spout from a geyser and melts every bone and spasming muscle. It ends as quickly as it comes, draining all the tension out of her with it. Not that it stops her from taking her turn shouting at the ceiling, calling his name like she would call on a god in the throes of rapture.

In a way, he is a god to her. Or at least, the closest she'll get to one, these days. Maybe a demi-god?

To her disappointment, he soon pulls out of her, leaving her raw and porous again, this time for good. (Or until next time.) But he doesn't leave her just yet. He traps her between the bed and his weight, gasping in her ear. His hair spills back over her skin like ink as he takes her by her hair again and shifts her head aside to regain access to her neck and shoulders. His tongue leaves slimy warm trails as he laps up what blood is still oozing from his bites before it clots.

He's feeding off her. Either that, or he's mixing their fluids as much as he possibly can so he may mark her as indelibly his. Could it be one of his seals? No. She'd likely be dead by now if it was, and twisting in much more pain than she is.

Then he takes her under her chin to turn her head towards him. He lingers around her eyes to kiss and lick up what tears squeeze from them like drops of juice from fruit.

"A–am I forgiven? This mean I'm forgiven?" she whispers, her thoughts murky and voice almost as hoarse as his is from all the shouting.

"Mmmm, yes," he drawls, his movements undulating and more leisurely like the tides in the height of autumn. His hands slip under her to stroke her breasts and under her arms before they reach out to undo the strings binding her hands. Her numb wrists and fingers are covered with dark coils not unlike the tattoos etched in his own arms.

Orochimaru rests his head near hers, a content chuckle reverberating in his chest, and hers. He massages her curling hands to help them regain feeling faster. When she tilts her head to rest it against his with a hum, imagining the two of them floating away on a raft on a tropical sea, he doesn't push her away.

At least, not immediately.

He kneads her earlobe between his soft lips, dabbing at it with his tongue, before he carefully pulls out the earplug. She coos with appreciation as he reaches around to pull out the other from her right ear.

He places them on her pillow and breaks the silence, four minutes later: "I'm afraid I can't stay. But I'll have a bath drawn up for you. Take it before you sleep."

Aina gets half the mind to protest she'll sleep better with him here—shucks, why not do this all again, but slower and softer, this time?—but the words rot and fall away in her post-orgasmic haze. "I…I'll think of you. C-come sleep with me tomorrow night. I mean, really sleep. Please. Y'look like you could really use it."

With this new close-up of his face, it's true. The purple around his eyes is not just from his natural markings. Nobody can get away with avoiding so much sleep. He may feel better if he slept more.

Good gracious, how could he not want to sleep after what they've just done?

By the time she gets enough feeling back in her hands to reach out to touch his face, to comb his hair and kiss his lips as she's been aching to do all along, he's already moved back out of reach. His back is to her while he slips the rest of his clothes back on. She still has his lifeless cum seeping out of her when she rolls over to lie on her back, raw and soaked in his sweat and musk and coconut and her sweat, blood and tears…and he pulls up his pants like he's just peed in the urinal.

Her heart sinks.

Men are so peculiar. How quickly they seem to detach.

Or is it just him?

…

She's been watching the sunrise nearly every day for as long as she can remember. Watching the sky's slow unfurling from darkness to light, from deep blue to fiery purple and orange and pink and finally to light blue, is as reinvigorating as eating breakfast. It's a new day, a fresh start, with all of yesterday's troubles and follies melted away like butter in the pan. It's one of the few constants in this increasingly chaotic life of hers.

She misses the sunrise, this morning. In fact, it's a quarter to eleven by the time she does wake up, blurry visions of snakes and nagas retreated to the back of her mind with a low and groggy hiss. The sheets still smell musky, like him. It's an effort just to pull her nose away.

But given the drama from the past three days, the toil of raising new henhouses and plotting new gardens to accommodate the village's expansion, and last night's making up, maybe she needed to sleep in more than she'd needed to see the sunrise? Just this once. There's still the sunset at the end of the day, and there'll be another sunrise tomorrow.

This is the conclusion she eventually comes to as she sits on the edge of the bed, gently fingering the dozen or so bite marks and bruises splattered across her torso like drops of purple and red paint across a brown, sagging canvas. She's still sore, especially between her scratched thighs. Maybe it's not such a bad thing that they don't have relations every day? Or would she be less sore if they had more relations, instead?

That's right. They have yet to iron out this wrinkle in schedules.

However sore she may be, she can still walk. She does her stretches and gets dressed as she's always done, taking care to tie the scarf around her neck so no one will see the love-bite on it. Orochimaru gives people those seals by biting their neck. Upon closer inspection in the mirror, it is indeed just a regular love-bite he's granted her.

How would she take it if he did decide one day to give her one of those? Is it even a thought worth entertaining? He enjoys her body—last night he'd made that abundantly clear—but not in the way that he'd consider taking it for his own. It's too different from his. As far as strength goes…well, she's working on that.

Cursed seal, no cursed seal, she's still important, isn't she?

On the other hand, it's impossible to imagine getting much closer to another person than sharing chakra, becoming soulmates in the purest sense.

Though some would beg to differ. He himself must not see it that way, or else he wouldn't be giving them to people left and right. Is he sure he isn't overextending himself? Not that she's an expert on the properties of chakra by any means, and if there's one thing she's learning, it's that you ought not call judgments without all the facts.

…

He didn't really mean all those things he'd said last night, did he? About her being a terrible person? He does that, sometimes. He says things to rile up people. Except you don't rile up people by telling them lies. Or at least things they know are lies…

Aina keeps along the wall, reaching up to glide palm and fingertips across the rough edges of the stones that make it up.

Is it true?

If he did mean them, and she is a terrible person…

Does he think she's terrible?

It's not as if they've done anything Konoha has not. Suppose whether a person is terrible depends on who you ask?

That's not how it used to be…

Her kudzu vines for thoughts are torched away by the sight of a boy with round glasses entering the kitchen. He can't be any older than thirteen, about as old as any genin. His ash-gray hair swings in tatters along his shoulders.

Kabuto!

She slows her pace and her breath, hoping not to frighten him. Her bare feet patter softly against the marble floor. This place is much too dark and foreboding. That research is one of the pillars of Otogakure doesn't mean it has to be so dreary. Maybe when they find enough children, they can paint murals along the walls?

"H—howdy," she softly calls to him, stopping some two meters away.

With a short gasp, Kabuto jerks around to regard her, his coal-black eyes large, puffy and blank as if in a daze. He's a Pisces, isn't he? When Nono had brought him under her roof, he'd had nothing. No family, no name, no memory of either one. This, she knows because Nono had mentioned it one day during a bake sale they had set up together to raise money for the orphanage. The birthday they'd given him was February 29th. A day that only exists every few years and darts back into the ether the rest of the time, much like a fish in the deep sea.

If he isn't technically a Pisces, he is surely on the path of one.

Poor lonely child! With no memory, one has no story. No personhood to call their own. Her eyes sting at the thought.

Aina wills herself to relax her posture and smile. "Ah, it's awright. I live here, too. I'm a friend. Or a'least I hope we can be friends. I'm gettin' me some breakfast. Aha, well, I reckon it's more like brunch, now. You hungry? I'll make you somethin'."

Rather than answer her question, Kabuto pushes his glasses—Nono's glasses—back up on his face. He narrows her eyes at her. "Do I…know you?" His voice is soft and cracked, either from creeping puberty or shock. Or both.

Aina taps her fingers together. "Ah, not that well, I reckon. M-maybe you don' remember me? I'm Kame."

"Kame…from the market…"

To her dismay, he steps backwards as if to put more distance between them. "Wh-why are you here?"

"I'm a—I'm a friend o' Orochimaru's. Reckon y'all done got acquainted, awready."

"Are you from The Foundation, too?"

"Huh? N-nope! Nope-nope-nope! I ain't got nothin' t' do with them. If I did, I'da never done what they—I mean, no. I don' know what all they done. All I know's you gonna be livin' with us for a while."

Kabuto doesn't look convinced. "Then…why are you here?"

Her hairline at the nape of her neck itches. She reaches up to scratch it. "Ah well, it's a long story. A mighty long story. I'd tell you it, but I can't tell no stories on an empty stomach. Let's get us some brunch. Oh, but first…"

Aina slowly dips a hand into her left pocket.

"What are you doing?" asks Kabuto with an urgency that hurts to listen to.

"I-I'm takin' a rock outta my pocket. I wanna give you it. Well, ah, loan you it, more like." Once she fishes out the one she'd been after, she cradles it in both hands with arms outstretched so that he may see it. Her rose quartz. Papa's rose quartz.

Aina ambles up to him without another word until she reaches the threshold to the kitchen. Likewise, Kabuto says nothing more until she meets him, first glancing at her offering, then at her legs.

"Here. This's a rose quartz. It belonged to my papa," she coos. "When I'm hurtin', I hold it an' rub it. I want you t' hold onto it for a couple days. Maybe…it'll help you feel better, too? Please tell me if it does. Oh. Also, please don' lose it."

Even for his young age, he looks so small and frail huddled over himself like this, like an owlet that had just fallen out of his nest in the middle of the day. Her hands curl with the drive to hold him in her arms, but no, she mustn't. What if he won't want to be touched yet?

Kabuto hesitates for the longest of moments, like he doubts her claims but is too frayed to argue. In the end, he plucks the smooth pink quartz out of her hands. "I—"

He sighs. "Thank you," he says flatly, looking down at the quartz in his palm rather than at her. It's going to need some time to work.

Keeping this in mind, she beams at him. "You're always welcome!"

What happened to this boy, to Nono? The only way Nono could have ever let him go is if something horrible had happened to her. That's how mamas are. No. Is it too early to ask? Some questions must be timed carefully, as she's learned the hard way.

"You're limping."

"B-beg your pardon?"

"You're limping."

Oh! Oh, dear. Is her discomfort that obvious, or is Kabuto that perceptive?

A swell of heat hits her face. She briefly sucks in her lips. "Oh, that ain't nothin' t' mind. I'm jus', um, sore. From yesterday's work."

Even with lubricant, Orochimaru works her so thoroughly.

…

So Kabuto is going to be Orochimaru's student, his first in a while since Anko.

Oh, Anko. What is she doing, now? She'll be eighteen, this October (three days before Orochimaru will turn forty-four). Is she all right? According to Orochimaru, she had refused to go with him when he'd asked. She had been too frightened to leave Konoha.

Anko had always been so fearless: as scrappy a girl as any, her temper matched only by her appetite for dango and red bean soup. But really, what child wants to leave the only home they've ever known to live in a strange land where they don't know anyone?

Should they have taken her with them, anyway? They could have been a family.

Maybe the next time they're near the area, she should send a bird? Not to deliver a message; that is no longer possible with Konoha hunting them down. There's no reason she can't send a bird just to check on her in secret.

In the meantime, they can start their family with Kabuto, and all the foundlings they come across later. She can be Mama. Orochimaru can be Papa. Both of their families are gone, and neither could find a permanent family in Konoha. Orochimaru did have Jiraiya and Tsunade, but they've since scattered to the winds, chasing their own pleasures…if they're not running from their pains.

So why not make their own family, together? They can't have any babies of their own, so why not adopt all the babies in the world without mamas or papas?

"Oh my goodness! Y'awready come up with a way t' save th' seal users?"

"It's still tentative, but I believe so. It's a barrier jutsu that suspends the subject in a state of, shall we say, false death. This will allow the cursed seal to advance rapidly to the second state without killing them."

She softly claps her hands for him. "Ahahaha! That's right clever o' you! I knew you could do it!"

"For it to be successful, I'd need four casters who are skilled at sealing techniques. For now, I'm calling it the Four Black Mists Formation."

Aina peeks over his shoulder at the sketch he has spread out between him and the oil lamp. "What's that, a coffin? They go in there?"

"Yes. Fitting, isn't it? Death is not the end, but a new beginning."

She lays a hand on his back, letting the ends of his hair flow over it. For someone who is so fearful of death, he sure likes to put it up everywhere. Pickled snakes and lizards in jars, animal and human bones, skins, blades of all styles and purposes…

Familiarity breeds comfort. And comfort breeds mastery. Or complacency.

Or maybe he's like her, unable to let certain things go to rest? Stealing and hoarding things in hopes of collecting themselves? (His exact words.)

She would have preferred a cocoon. Cocoons are more protective and hopeful. Coffins are so sad and permanent yet easy to break into for those determined enough to steal from them, like the one standing before her. But since it's his technique, he can design it, and put as many purple ropes on it, as he pleases.

Since she's had time to sleep on it, she now must consider yet another reason for his distance.

Is he depressed? Anxious? Such a proud fellow, he is! He's never liked talking about his feelings. That is, when he has them. Except pride. And anger. Those two flow quite freely.

Then again, she's seen from experience that prying doesn't (often) work. Orochimaru will open up when he's ready. Kabuto will do the same.

Indeed, the tension from the past few days has dissipated like a storm: the thunder and lightning have stopped but the dark clouds hang thin above them, the air around them smelling of rain. Such is often the case after they make up.

If he's that stressed, the last thing she wants to do is make it worse. She's a good girlfriend. She can be less selfish.

Carefully, she wraps her arms around his trunk. She lets her hands hand loose and presses her cheek against his left shoulder. "Oi, Orochimaru. I been thinkin'…maybe we should change th' rules for Love Night, some? We ain't gotta have sex when you really don' feel like it. But that don' mean we shouldn' spend time together in other ways. I mean goin' for walks 'round th' property an' things like that. I'm thinkin' we do somethin' nice together once a week, 'cept when there's an emergency or one of us's sick…plus we make love a'least once a month."

Orochimaru is silent.

"W-we can have as much quick sex's you want. I believe they called quickies? We could make up a code for when you do wanna have sex. Me, you can expect me to want it plum near all th' time with you, ahaha. But for you…ah, can't be too obvious to th' others…I know! You can say somethin' like—"

"'Bring the red one.'"

Aina blinks. "What'd you say?"

"I can say, 'Bring the red one.'"

"M-my nightie?"

"Yes. Although I don't imagine you'll always physically have it on hand. That will be our code."

Aina blushes at the suggestion. Red: what a sexy color! When it isn't violent. "Okey-dokey."

Orochimaru smooths out the sketch extra-slowly. Beneath the sketch, beyond her vision even if she was still looking this way, lies a book open to the first two pages describing the Kaguya clan.

"Which reminds me: I'm leaving for Grass Country, next week. We're building a base there, as well. I trust you're coming along?"

Every hair on her body tingles at the invitation, despite his matter-of-fact delivery thereof. "S-sure! 'Course I'm comin' along! Yep-yep!"

He tilts his head up to look at her. "Understand that this is mainly a business trip. But, just maybe, we may be able to get enough time along the way to make up for the time I owe you."

Aina bounces lightly on her feet with delight. Her time with Orochimaru has taught her countless valuable lessons. Two of them: pack light and take as much happiness as you can from the little things. Not that she wasn't familiar with these lessons before. One can learn a thing or two about life from watching sea turtles, swimming everywhere yet never truly lost, with no permanent home yet returning to the beach they were born every year to continue life. But this business of raising a village with him has forced her to take these more seriously than ever.

"Yippee! Heeheeheehee! Oh, Orochimaru! That'd be wonderful! Thank you, thank you!" she gushes, rubbing her brow against his back. Like every time before, her skin and ribs vibrate with his chuckle.

Orochimaru sure laughs a lot. Almost as if he's thinking about a private joke. Or perhaps a joke that everyone has heard time and again but only he gets.

"Fufufufu…oh. And one more thing: be sure to bring the red one."

Aina gasps and stiffens at the last three words. Goodness, that was fast! Orochimaru's libido seems to have many highs and lows. "Y'wanna do it right now? I-I'm still a li'l sore down there from last night. But my mouth ain't sore…"

"No, I mean bring the red nightie for our trip."

She grins up at him. "Oh! Well, aha, actually that's th' only nightie I got, right now. But you got it, darlin'~!"

It almost sounds like he's purring as he turns around in her arms to face her. As he coils his arms around her waist, hers hover up to latch onto his shoulders. He locks her in a hypnotic stare, his pupils dilating. Just before they close the distance, she thinks she sees his right eyebrow twitch.

She brushes back a lock of his silky hair for a better look. What could he be thinking, now?

She loses the chance to ask.

Squeezed close together, at long, long, long last, they kiss. Just like they used to do. His mouth is so much softer than his words would suggest. Warmth pours from his mouth into hers like matcha tea, strong and earthy and bittersweet. The moist smacks between them pull her deeper into the trance, and all the unpleasantness from before drifts farther away.

One hand dips to cup her bottom, pressing her that much firmer to him. He's cold, but he'll be warmer soon with her presence. Because they're like yin and yang. Scorpio and Taurus. They need each other, even if he likes to act otherwise.

Her soft, unsupported breasts crush up against his chest. One smirk and a caress of his tongue along her lips and she's done for.


End file.
